


The Lady from Another Grinning Soul

by aactionjohnny



Category: The Venture Bros
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Drinking, Enemies to Friends, F/M, Frenemies, Hate Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-03 04:01:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17276705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aactionjohnny/pseuds/aactionjohnny
Summary: Dr. Mrs. The Monarch is frustrated by the Blue Morpho problem. Rusty has a full bar at his disposal. How convenient for her nerves.This is a story of their complex relationship, how it evolves because of their strife.





	1. She Will Be Your Living End

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place pretty much directly after "Red Means Stop." I've always liked their dynamic and I wanted to explore it further because I really think they could be pals under different circumstances.

Every bad decision he makes feels like a calculated plot to insure his self-destruction. And this, he knows, is the worst decision he’ll make tonight. Shoving his hand forward into the closing elevator door, spindly fingers curled. He hopes it doesn’t look like  _ groping _ .

“Wait--” he says, leaning clumsily against the door as it opens, and he stumbles a bit. “Have a drink with me.”

He knows it’s not the first time. But now, she’s without a disguise. This is  _ her _ , as she was meant to be. Black dress, black hat. The look of sheer fury on her face. 

“Are you kidding?” she asks, folding her arms, cheeks still red from her utter failure to have the last word. It was endearing, refreshing, to see her awkward for the first time. Like a real person. Not a stranger in a bar or his enemy’s arm candy. “You’re still trying this?” Her disgust is palpable, and he shakes his head.

“No, no, I…” He paws at his own bony chest like he’s nervous. “It was a shitty day. Have a drink with me.”

He notes how she softens, how her shoulders slope and she takes a steadying breath.

“Fine. But no funny business.” She walks right past him like he’s furniture. Most men must feel that way in her wake. Like an accessory. It’s a bad, bad decision, but he’s already making his way behind the bar, trying not to watch as she moves so daintily, hoisting herself up on the barstool and leaning her chin in her gloved hands.

From the balcony there comes some muted shrieking and the sound of water splashing against the deck. Children.

“Not joining the pool party?” she asks.

“I don’t swim at night.”

“Afraid of sharks?”

“I’m afraid of everything. Don’t you know that by now?”

He’s surprised by his own candor, and so he focuses hard on the bottle of scotch he’s opening for the first time. 

“How is that possible, Dr. Venture?” she asks, eyes tracing the pouring liquid as he fills a glass. The ice cracks and shakes as he slides it over to her. “I mean, shouldn’t you be braver by now?”

“Oh, you mean because of all the abject terror?”

She snorts as she turns the glass in her hand.

“Yeah, that.”

He takes a sip, trying not to wince. So what if he’s showing off, parading his masculinity like some featherless peacock? She’s married to a man in a god damn butterfly costume. But he fucking hates scotch. 

“Because, even after being kidnapped weekly since I could read, there’s still some stupid part of me that wants to live.” The liquor, stronger than his skinny body can take, makes him all the more honest, and so quickly.

She stares into her drink, her nose hovering above the glass, inhaling the strong scent. Of _ course _ she’s a scotch drinker.

“Yeah…” She takes a sip. “That  _ is _ stupid.”

She is a master of cruelty. But hers is so gentle and fair. His is too blatant. It’s the kind that makes women hate him and makes his sons cry in their beds. But isn’t he allowed that? Hasn’t he been through hell enough to earn being the worst he can be? He wonders what her excuse is.

“This is good…” she muses, placing her glass down on the bar, running her finger along the rim. “I guess I needed it.”

“Be honest, you stayed because I  _ asked-- _ ”

“Don’t push it. Venture.”

And he shuts up. It’s like he can’t help it, can’t help but spew lustful nonsense after her as if one day she’ll react differently. What’s that famous quote everyone uses wrong, about insanity?

“...but thanks,” she says finally, eyes scanning the corner of the bar. It’s better that way. He feels just too awful when she looks right at him. “God, I feel so fucking stupid.” She places a hand on her forehead, more angry than regretful. “And who is the Five Point Five going to blame for this? Me, obviously.”

“Why do you say that?” he asks, leaning forward some, allowing just a splash of scotch down his burning throat.

She sighs and rights herself, fixes her posture. She stares at him, and her angry eyes look tired.

“Because it’s  _ always  _ me. I wanted to move on the Morpho problem first, they basically told me I was suffering from  _ hysteria _ . I told them to pump the breaks on going after him, they acted like I was a shrew. You know,  _ bossy _ . You get what I’m saying?”

“That you’re cursed by your...womanhood?” he asks, fighting that grin she must loathe so much.

She looks exhausted by his behavior, by this whole day and night. With another somber sigh she tilts her glass back, downing the rest of it in one magnificent gulp.

This was a bad decision. He doesn’t want to know her well. It would be easier to just keep hitting on her at arm’s length.

There are cheers from the balcony, arguments over the volleyball net. Success and wealth comes with the price of having hungover OSI agents waking up on your patio.

“And here I forgot my swimsuit…” she jests, pushing the glass back across the bar toward him. “...you don’t mind, do you? All the...Guild people hanging around?”

He waves his hand at her.

“You couldn’t have asked that when it was your husband burning down my lawn once a week?”

He expects a smack in the mouth, of course. But she’s too good for that. She stings him with the wry smile on her lips instead.

“No, I don’t mind,” he tells her, giving up on his charade, pouring the rest of his drink into her glass and going for a bottle of pinot noir instead. “I don’t care anymore. I’m just glad no one’s trying to kill me right now.”

“Because you’re afraid of everything.”

He tilts his glass toward her once its filled. A toast to his cowardice.

She takes the newly filled scotch glass in hand and inspects it idly, her wrist limp as she holds it.

“You trying to get me drunk, Dr. Venture?”

“Why, is it working?”

She rolls her eyes as she takes another sip. If anything, she seems like she wants to get  _ herself _ drunk. It must be a lot of pressure, the position she’s in. All of a sudden top brass and held accountable. He knows what that’s like, maybe. Skyrocketing. But he’s got it easy. He’s got a penthouse and employees and all the money in the world.

She’s got a seat in the middle of a pissing contest.

“Is that any good?” she asks of his wine.

“It’s a ‘94…”

“My, my, Doctor.”

“Would you like another round, Doctor?” he asks, reaching for another glass.

“Why thank you, Doctor.”

It’s a bit like giggling, the way they sound. Like they’re much younger and much more drunk.

 

She hasn’t had wine this good since Hamilton tried to get in her pants for the first time. She was so stupid then, and she can’t even tell if she’s gotten any wiser. Here she is, getting tipsy with a man whose crotch she ought to drive her heel into, laughing up a storm like they’re old friends. It’s the booze, she knows, that makes it so easy. Makes her grin and joke and forgive him. She hasn’t learned anything.

“--so then, and I shit you not--” he goes on with one of his many stories, and she listens with a haze around her. “--Col. Gentleman punches the guy so hard he falls into the volcano! And I’m just...standing there, sweating like a pig, and you know what I couldn’t help but think of? Earth science. I was inches from magma and going through the diagram of how it’s formed. In my head.”

“You were a well-trained pet, that’s for sure…”

The pity she feels borders on sympathy. Were she not so lost herself, it would be easier to write him off as pathetic, milking his childhood tragedy to the last drop.

But he has good wine, and funny stories. He has a huge living room and a good CD collection. God, her husband would throw a fit if he knew. She knows that and yet she stays. She knows how it will hurt him when she comes home late at night with explaining to do, but she asks for another glass and for him to put on music. She owes her husband one, anyway, for all the shit he’s put her through.

Even in their marriage, they’re villains. There is nothing quite so natural to them as revenge.

“Oh! Oh I love this one--” she says, fanning her hand, speaking sloppily into the rim of her wine glass. Pat Benatar-- an old hero of hers. She can’t help but wiggle a little, some drunken form of dancing.  _ We belong to the night _ . It plays in her head when she reminds herself of who she’s signed up to be. “Weeee belong…”

She hears him snort at her. That’s rich, she thinks, for her to be the one getting laughed at.

“You are stuck in the 80s, Doctor Venture. Just like your friend the uh...the albino guy who’s shacked up with the guy from the Lollipop Guild?”

He laughs, heartily, in apparent shock at her bluntness.

“Oh I am so not on his level!” he protests.

She looks him up and down. The awful colors, the jumpsuit, the leather shoes.

“Okay. 70s, then.”

They toast to that, too. They’ve been toasting to nothing all night.

They finish off a second bottle. Lower quality than the first, but they are certain it’s not noticable. 

“I really gotta go, Dr. Venture…” she says, slow and slurred, sliding off of her barstool and adjusting her dress and her hat. “S’late. Everyone’s passed out…”

The balcony is largely silent. She has to wonder of any of them noted that she was in here…

“Tell you husband I said to fuck off…” he tells her, following her to the door with the same boozed-up ambling. “Or whatever.”

“So you’re afraid f’everything, but you’re not afraid f’me?” she asks, leaning against the elevator frame as she prepares to make her exit.

“Oh, no. I’m terrified of you.”

She grins , tilts her head back, pokes him in the chest with one gloved finger.

“That’s. The way. I like it.” Punctuated by more playful shoving. “Goodnight, Dr. Venture.”

“G’night…”

She sighs. Well alright. With a quick squeeze to his arm, she lifts herself onto her toes to press her wine-stained lips to his pale, pathetic cheek. That’s something she’ll wake up hating herself for. She knows it, but she did it anyway.

She’s full of bad decisions. Some of them are just worse than others.


	2. My God, I'm Still Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hangover.

 

She’s thankful despite her hangover, that she kept her mouth shut. The thought occurred to her as she meandered through the lobby.  _ I almost killed you _ . She  _ intended _ to kill him. She fired a bullet aimed at his chest. She could have told him, could have drunkenly spewed her regrets at him, only to accrue more and more of them.  _ I tried to kill you, and I’m glad I failed _ . But he’d take that in all the wrong ways. He’d grin that stupid grin and lean his elbow on the nearest surface, his glasses sliding down his nose as he flirts.  _ Asshole _ . She despises herself. Kissing him like that. He was normal and kind for  _ one night, _ and she showers him in affection like he’s earned it? The only things that man has earned are a smack across the face and intense therapy. He’s going to carry her lipstick stain with him for years, swearing it means something.

She folds her arms and looks out the window of the shuttle, headed for Meteor Majeure. Unlike what they show you on TV, so much of space is just...dark. She’s glad of it, for her aching head. She’ll arrive any moment, alone, late. She rifles through her mind for excuses, but she knows it doesn’t matter. Her cohorts will decide she has been kept late in bed by her husband, because regardless of her grace and her power and her strength, she is still  _ someone’s wife _ .

There is solace in the sight of Watch and Ward, waiting patiently in the lobby, eager to take her coat. 

“Madame Councilwoman,” Ward says, shuffling her along down the corridor. “You look radiant!”

“Positively glowing!” Watch echoes.

“What the hell do you two want from me, acting like that?” she asks, furrowing her brow. She follows them though, to the council chamber.

“It’s just...the rest of us look kinda  _ rough _ after last night’s shenanigans,” Ward admits, turning to face her. God, he looks awful. More pale and gaunt than ever, knotted hair sticking out from beneath his good. “You’ll have to tell us your secret hangover cure.”

“Wh...what do you mean?” she asks, becoming so suddenly a shy little girl, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“You stayed pretty late last night.”

“Oh...so you noticed.”

She averts her eyes, burning holes in the floor as they approach the chamber.

“It was a brilliant PR move, Madame,” Watch tells her. “Having a drink with the enemy. It’ll really soften our image.”

She leans forward, allows her retina to be scanned so that they can enter.

“Oh, yeah, of course,” she says. That’s all it was. Optics. Appeasement. All her giggling feigned, a ruse. “You ought to give yourselves more credit. If we start a Guild vs. OSI volleyball league, I’ll make sure your names are on it.” She smiles, sure she can charm them into dropping the subject. They’re like puppies…

“We won, for the record.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

They seem to shiver with their honored laughter. As they part ways for their separate assigned seats, she wonders why they are so slavish. No doubt it’s her legs in those boots, her neat hair and her wiles. Maybe she can pretend it’s her terrifying presence, the power she wields. 

Dr. Venture, at least, is afraid of her. But he’s afraid of everything.

He _ should  _ be afraid, she decides, looking out across the council table. She’s the woman in charge. She’s going to decide his fate and everyone else’s. And this time, she won’t make mistakes.

 

\--

 

“Oh god…” Rusty cradles his head in his hands, wincing at the sound of Dean setting down the plate of scrambled eggs before him. It’s his own fault that’s all the boy knows how to make. “Don’t be fooled by your college years, Dean. Hangovers get much worse when you’re older…” He reaches shakily for his coffee, squinting against the light of the kitchen ceiling.

“I’ve...never had one. Shore Leave, he...let me have a sip of his mojito, though.” He looks so ashamed to admit it, and Rusty knows it’s his fault. His fault his boys are fearful to admit even the most innocuous acts of rebellion.

“That man is a bad influence…” Even if he doesn’t mean it. Even if he’s just jealous that his sons went out with him and actually had a decent time.

“Why? Because he’s--”

“No,” he denies, waving his hand. His joints hurt… “Not because he’s gay, Dean.”

He’ll choose to ignore the clear look of relief on his son’s face. He’s too hungover for this shit.

“Did you have a good time, pop?” Dean asks, poking at his food. They’ve got to do something about that boy’s appetite.

“Begpardon?”

“With Dr. Mrs. The Monarch, I mean. Did you bury the hatchet? She’s always hated you.”

“...remind me to build a time machine so I can go back and teach you _ manners _ , young man.”

Rusty takes a bite of his eggs, drowning in melted cheese. It’s a welcome relief, a distraction from the agony he feels. Agony, and a misplaced sense of giddiness. She was...sweet to him, last night. She teased and smiled, and left on good terms. But it doesn’t  _ matter. _ It doesn’t  _ count _ , since she was drunk off her ass. It makes him thankful that The Monarch isn’t his primary arch anymore. The revenge he’d take would definitely be a nuisance.

But the thought makes him grin through the misery. That asshole, shaking his fist at the sky, all worked up because his wife isn’t on his side. She told him once to pretend to be terrified of that man. She threatened him with his own death, should he emasculate her husband.

He doesn’t need any help with that. Guy does it fine enough all on his own.

“Pop?” Dean asks, leaning in, trying to get his attention. “You okay?”

“Uh, yeah, sweetie, just....need to take it easy today.”

He goes back to bed, the television turned down low.  _ The Graduate _ is playing on TCM. He’s seen it countless times, but he still gets that same sense of dread at the end. You  _ want  _ it to be happy. You  _ want _ Dustin Hoffman and Katharine Ross to smile as they make their lovers’ escape.

But nothing ever works out that way.

Exhausted, dizzy, maybe still drunk, he rolls over and grabs for his phone. He’s got her number for one reason or another, buried deep in his contacts, as he’s never been brave enough or drunk enough to call her.

 

SMS [10:15 AM] : DR. MRS. ASSHOLE : I blame you for whatever vomiting I do today. Hair of the dog later?

 

He  _ must _ still be drunk, taking a leap like that. He wonders if she even remembers what she did.

 

\--

She gives Watch and Ward a gracious look as she boards the shuttle home. God, all she wants to do is sleep. All she wants to do is forget that she’s been stupid.

Once they get into orbit, her phone vibrates. No doubt it’s her husband checking in. 

There are texts from him, of course, mixed in with the variety of correspondence she doesn’t have the energy for.  _ Miss you hunny bunny. Making tacos tonight _ . 

She reads Venture’s text, holding the phone close to her face, shielded by her hands as if someone might see, might tell on her like she’s being bad.

 

SMS [10:20 AM] DR. VENTURE : This is your fault.

 

She locks her phone and looks out the window. It _ is  _ his fault that she’s so shaky and miserable. But it’s her own fault that she feels a pit in her chest. It gestates an apology. 

  
  


SMS [10:24 AM] DR. VENTURE : Tonight’s no good. Tomorrow? 

 

She grimaces as she sends it. She hates that she feels like she owes him, like she has to fix the previous night’s mistake.  _ You’re still my nemesis, even if I’m sorry for shooting you _ . What she hates even more is her curiosity. She knows he has more stories, more fancy wine and self-loathing to show her.  _ Recon, _ she’ll call it. Gathering fodder for her husband’s hate.

 

She nearly jumps out of her seat when he responds.

 

INCOMING SMS [10:30 AM] DR. VENTURE : I eagerly await your complaining. 

 

It’s a relief that it wasn’t something nasty, something suggestive. She can keep her honor, her dignity. She can relax upon the idea that her stupid mistake hasn’t spurred him on. Like it would be _ her _ fault, somehow.

God, she’s just as bad as her coworkers. Blaming her softness for everything. God dammit, she’s allowed to be soft. She’s allowed to be kind, woman or not. Their business is hate, yes, but sharing drinks and stories isn’t  _ business _ . She doesn’t know what it is. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sheila it's called friendship
> 
> hgghhh ok idk how i feel abt this chapter or the direction this is going so i welcome input
> 
> i know a lot of yall arent sold on this as a ship but thank you for putting your trust in me
> 
> i hope to make it clear that she loves her husband so much, regardless of the resentment she might feel because of the turbulence their relationship went through this season. she just doesn't share his abject hatred for rusty, and she's tired of pretending that she does. she knows he's a douchebag, but she doesn't feel a need for vengeance. 
> 
> this might go places, it might not, idk, i'm just trynna have fun
> 
> it feels like a character study of them both, which i love. they're faves.
> 
> also watch and ward are Good Boys


	3. Show Me You're Real

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so because of the title i chose i guess all the chapter titles will be from the same bowie album....

 

This time she wears a hooded sweater beneath her peacoat. Out of her Guild clothes, like she’s some celebrity going for coffee. Sunglasses over her eyes, a scarf around her neck. When she left the house this morning she told her husband she was going to dinner with “the girls.”  _ The girls? _ What was she thinking? He knows she doesn’t have any friends, and _ she  _ knows to ignore how pathetic that sounds. But, seeming all too eager to get her out of the house, he told her to have a good time and sent her on her way.

When she arrives the lobby is flooded with tourists, and she’s thankful all the more that she decided to dress in something inconspicuous. She approaches the reception desk, fixing her sunglasses, making sure they’re high up her nose.

“Ah, are you miss…” Hatred, clueless ever, squints at the little note Venture left for him. “...Benatar? Really?”

Jesus Christ, Venture.

“Yes. That’s me. Uh, no relation.”

“Doc said to meet him in the lab. Hope you don’t mind, I gotta check you for weapons before you--”

She holds up a hand at him.

“Absolutely not. And I’m unarmed, anyway. Don’t you have metal detectors?”

And it is then that she realizes the good doctor is not the only one in this building who fears her. The thought makes her have to stifle a proud little grin as she strides past him toward the elevator.

“This is so stupid…” she mumbles to herself, pulling down her hood and taking off her glasses as she descends to the basement lab. “Sheila, you’re a fool.”

It’s pity, she tells herself. She feels bad for the guy, he’s so pathetic and washed up. Even now that he has a real lab and a real building, even now that he’s apparently actually working on something important. He’s still Rusty Venture, the man who can’t hold his scotch. Rusty Venture, who one time threw a fit because someone ate his low fat pudding cup from the fridge.

When she steps off the elevator she finds him hunched over a table, wearing a surgical mask as he pours some comically pink liquid into a canister.

“Making me a drink?” she asks, and tries not to laugh when he nearly drops everything.

“God-- do you mind?” he asks, gently placing the test tube back in the holder. “This stuff is no joke.”

“Yeah, I watch the news, Venture. Don’t tell me you asked me here to try and God Gas me.”

“Well, getting you drunk didn’t work--”

She folds her arms, straightens her lips, gives him a look that he ought to know could mean his imminent death. 

“--sorry. It just comes out of me,” he laments, pulling down his mask. 

“Well hold it in. I’m not here to be your booty call.”

“I’ve been told no one calls it that anymore…”

“You don’t _ call _ it anything, because you don’t have one.”

She crosses the lab, heading for the clean white couch.

“You’re in some kind of mood,” he accuses, even if it’s playful. She hears the squeaking of a fridge door opening. 

“Well I’m sorry if it’s weird for me to spend time with my husband’s arch enemy,” she says, dropping her peacoat over the arm of the couch. 

“You didn’t _ have _ to come,” he reminds her, more stern this time, though still he pours two generous glasses of sauvignon blanc for them.

She says nothing, just accepts the drink when he hands it to her. He’s right. She didn’t have to come, but she’s here. She shouldn’t have come, but she’s here. And just as his failed flirtation seems to pour out of him like bile, so does her regretful honesty.

“I don’t have any  _ friends, _ Dr. Venture,” she tells him in a single, rushed breath, swiftly shutting herself up with a sip of wine. “I guess I’m desperate.”

“Must be.” He grins at her, cocky bastard, leaning back into the couch opposite her. Thank god he’s not trying to get too close. Maybe he’s actually learned his lesson. “That what we are, then?”

“Remains to be seen.” She takes another sip, moving too fast, as always.

“I  _ am _ your enemy, as you said…”

She shrugs and places her glass on a coaster, engraved with the VenTech logo.

“You’re  _ his  _ enemy. It’s all just politics, Venture.”

“So he wouldn’t be angry with you for coming?”

“Oh, no, he’d be furious,” she admits, though her tone is light. “But he’s my husband, not my boss.”

Rusty raises his brow in agreement, nods as if to say  _ good luck _ . 

“...and he’s been acting so  _ weird _ lately,” she says, wrinkling her nose, already regretting what she’s begun. “Like he’s keeping something from me. You know the other night he went out with our henchman? Like.. _.out _ -out. Wore suits and everything.”

“Oh my god…”

“And it’s not that he’s a man, and it’s not that it’s someone else, I...we…” She sighs, groans, places her head in her hands. “Don’t take this the wrong way, because I’ll kill you if you do.”

“Noted.”

“We...swing, sometimes. But Date Night is  _ our _ thing. It’s a  _ husband-wife  _ thing. And he took someone else to spite me. Like he hasn’t done enough lately…”

She tries not to look at Venture, who seems utterly astonished at all this. She’s spilling far too much, and she takes another sip of wine.

“Do you wanna...t...talk about it?” he asks, timidly turning his stemless glass in his hand.

“No. I don’t.”

But after a few more sips, she does. She wants to pace around the lab, waving her arms and saying _ ‘can you believe that?’  _ far too many times, because every time she says it, Rusty says he can definitely believe it. Of course he can, having long been her husband’s nemesis. She knows The Monarch is more of an _ annoyance _ for Venture than anything, but god dammit, she loves him. It’s hard to, sometimes, but she does. She wouldn’t rant so much if it didn’t mean the world to her…

 

\--

 

He’s always known her to be full of fire, but it’s always been aimed at  _ him _ . And now, for once, it’s about someone else. His nemesis, to be exact. It’s refreshing, like a weight had been lifted from his skinny shoulders because he’s not the problem. How rare...He’s a problem for everyone, isn’t he? His friends, his bodyguard, his sons… It feels nice to be complained  _ to _ and not about.

“I...I mean, I can’t give you advice--” he says, pouring them both another glass.

“I know. You don’t know anything about this.”

“Ouch…”

“I…” She sighs. “I’m sorry. That was just mean.”

“You _ are _ a villain.”

“Yeah, but...it doesn’t mean I have to be an asshole.”

“That tracks. I’m technically a good guy, but I’m still an asshole.”

She snorts, and he’s glad of it. A little bit of self-awareness goes a long way. And, of late, ever since he’s been faced with all this wealth and glory, he’s realized just how pathetic he might be. People looked to his brother as a beacon of kindness and hope, and what do they see when they look at him? A wash-up with two of his dork friends making mind control gas for him. He can change that.

“You...don’t ever complain about this to anyone, do you?” he asks, voice dropping soft, somber.

“Like who? My coworkers?  _ Gary? _ ” She sounds so exasperated. “They’re why I’m so mad. But what happens if I say I’m upset? I’m too  _ ‘emotional,’ _ and I need to take time off.”

He takes a moment, downing a healthy sip of his wine to work of the courage. And then he stands, spindly legs barely carrying him over to side beside her.

“So why do you put up with it?” he asks, an arm over the back of the couch, his legs crossed at the knee. He half-expects some practiced answer, some citation of the Guild handbook or her wedding vows. But, nothing. She just grips her glass a little tighter and frowns.

“I’m good at what I do, and I’m in love.” But from her tone, he has to wonder if she thinks that’s enough. “I mean, why do you do what you do, Venture? Do you have a real reason?”

“Does guilt count?”

That’s all it is. Guilt and the fear of disappointing a man who’s already dead. Only recently has he begun to take pride in the work, to consider what a difference he can actually make in the world.

“Maybe this sounds...nihilistic. Like I’m a stoned teenager or something, but…” She looks at the floor a moment, as if searching for the right words. “It’s all bullshit. We are where we put ourselves, and there’s no point in stopping. We’re _...too old, _ Venture.”

“I wouldn’t know it by looking at you--” he says, holding his breath afterwards, in preparation for a scolding, for her to get up, throw her wine in his face, and leave. “Look, Dr. Mrs.-- uh, what can I call you?”

Her lips part as if in surprise, and from them there comes no vitriol.

“Sheila. Sheila is fine....”

He nods and scoots a little closer across the couch toward her.

“Sheila. You can do whatever the fuck you want. And it’s not just because I’m scared of you, and I think everyone else should be, too…”

“Then what is it?”

“...because you’re better than all of them. You’ve got... _ something _ . You think I’d have any one of those ass hats over for a drink? Come _ on! _ ”

“...yeah, well, you also don’t wanna  _ fuck _ Phantom Limb…”

“Should I? Was he any good?”

She tosses her head back, rolls her eyes, exhales an exhausted laugh as she smacks him on the arm. The joy he feels at the sight is palpable.

“...he was awful. Kept looking in the mirror,” she says, looking as though she’s trying not to burst into hysterical laughter.

“That’s insane! Not at  _ you!? _ ”

“Venture.”

“Right. Sorry.”

They drink in silence for a few minutes, and he notes how her eyes seem to scan the room. He hopes to god, or whatever there is, that she’s impressed. She _ is  _ better than all of them. She’s certainly better than _ him _ . But she seeks him out. She sits on  _ his _ couch and complains. _ She doesn’t have any friends _ . Maybe not yet, but he’s getting there. Even if she still makes his toes curl, even if her beauty and her power terrify him into adoration. He’s still got some kindness in him. He’s still, in part, an innocent little kid who believes he can be truly good. He never thought he’d feel sorry for anyone but himself, but here they are.

“...next time you come over we won’t drink,” he says, leaning his head back, looking at the ceiling, and then letting his gaze loll over to her. “We get real depressing real fast.”

“Two peas in a pod…” she mumbles into her drink. But she’s smiling, and she’s smiling at  _ him _ . 

He keeps his eyes on her. His every feature seems to sink, like he’s far more drunk than he ought to be. What he feels is not inebriation, but he can’t quite name it otherwise. He finds himself reaching out, throwing caution to the wind, placing a hand on her knee.

“I hope you stop hating me,” he says. Sad, pathetic, like he’s begging. But she doesn’t swat him away. She grins instead, placing a hand over his.

“It’s looking likely, Dr. Venture.”

He can’t help the way he eases, the way he exhales as if he’s been holding his breath.

They stay that way, squeezing hands, silently agreeing that it might not be so bad to be around each other, after all. But she ruins the moment.

“Show me what you’re working on here,” she bids him, slipping out of his reach.

“So you can steal it?”

“No, no, never,” she insists, biting her lip and she walks aimlessly toward the giant computer monitor. “So I can prepare to destroy it, obviously.”

And just like that, he’s reminded. It’ll never be so simple between them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm.....almost Mad that they have such good chemistry in this lmao
> 
> i still dont know exactly where it's heading but
> 
> thank you for reading and plz give feedback if u have it


	4. He talks like a jerk but he could eat you with a fork and spoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place directly after the Morphic Trilogy.
> 
> Some light naughtiness in this one, which I haven't written much of in a long time

 

He would have prefered if the place  _ had _ been haunted. Anything, even his staunch beliefs shaken to their core, would have been better than this. Better than the image stuck behind his eyelids of his father’s severed head, drooling and gaping. Taking over, as he always did, every part of Rusty’s life. 

He would rather have stared a real demon in the face.

He lacks even the capacity to be angry. At his father, for living. At White, for killing him before he got to ask any questions. At the old team, for keeping him in the dark. All that, he’s sure, will come later. For now he has no recourse but to bask in his disbelief and terror.  _ Daddy?  _ He’d said, always made small before him. He saw that vacant face and instantly he transfigured himself into something so close to disappearing altogether. He is nothing in the face of that man. Little Wonder, my ass. Little disappointment, little pet project. Little experiment. Little fool.

To think, he’d been so close to his father, and so often. To think if he had just dug his skinny fingers into the crease in the metal and pulled with all his might, he may have seen him…

Everyone leaves him alone. They know to, or they are afraid of what they’ll have to put up with if they ask. He sequesters himself, far off, in the big office he never uses, down the hall from the conference room on the twentieth floor. He has this wide desk, this leather couch, a vast window to look out of and survey his kingdom. He thought, briefly, that he could own the city. He thought he was some big man in charge. But there will always be someone bigger. No matter how many times he dies.

There’s nothing here to drink but his brother’s old vegetable smoothies, no doubt his last attempt at salvaging his health, and so he wrings his hands and sits at his desk like some villain.

_ Some villain. _ He should call her. It’s only fair, after how she leaned on him with her complaining. His instinct is to brush her off.  _ Women _ . But instead, for the first time, what he feels for The Monarch and the Guild is not just annoyance. There’s malice, now. Anger at what they’ve put her through. 

He brings out his phone and stares at it for some time, scrolling through his contacts. There’s no one else to turn to. Pete is drowning in guilt, and Billy is no doubt babysitting him. His sons have their own problems. Brock is depressed. Hatred is useless. She’s the only one he doesn’t roll his eyes to think about, and that’s bad.

He cannot help but hear the voice of his father. Self-righteous even in his lechery. Telling him to put the phone away and have some respect for the sanctity of marriage and the laws of the Guild. Like he’s one to talk.

“F-fuck you, dad…” 

He’s crying, he realizes then. Thin snot dripping from his nose, his shoulders shaking to keep the sobs in. He tosses his phone across the room, embarrassed by his own childishness but too angry to truly care, no matter how big the cracks in his screen. He buries his head in his hands, scratching at his bare scalp as if he has hair to pull.

 

\--

 

“Come on, Hunny Bunny, just come home and we can talk…” he pleads, tugging on her hand as she stands like a statue, looking without an ounce of focus out into the street. Even when Gary told her of their little escapade, there was a part of her that wanted to believe it was all a lie, a dream, an elaborate prank.

But there he was. The love of her life, clad in blue and blood, responsible for so much death and so much of her strife.

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I can explain…” 

The remorse in his voice makes her chest ache. It would be so easy to give in, it would be so easy to turn to him, gather him up in her arms and forgive. _ It’s okay, baby, you did what your hate told you to _ . 

But it’s not okay. She’s been through hell these past weeks. She’s lost sleep, and dignity, and now, perhaps worst of all, trust.

“Go home,” she says, dim and flat, like a command. “Just...go home.”

“But--”

She rips her hand from his grasp, eyes burning with tears she cannot let him see. Her weakness, her womanhood, it has already cost her so much pride.

“Go. Home.”

And she hates how easily he obeys. What the fuck does she want? She doesn’t want him to beg. She doesn’t want him to storm off. There is no good outcome to this. There is no coming back from it. She could have killed him. She could have killed Venture. Hell, she’s not ruling either decision out yet. She’s never had her blood boil so hot.

“Don’t call me. Don’t text me.” She places her hands on her hips, trying desperately to ignore Gary off in the wings, looking like a wounded puppy. “I will contact  _ you, _ hear me?” 

Her husband nods, just as pitiful as his henchman. 

She doesn’t cry until everyone has cleared out, and she is alone, on a bench, sobbing into her gloves.  _ Why do you do it? _ Rusty had asked her, and she gave him the answer she thought she believed in.  _ Why do I do it? _ She doesn’t know anymore. She’s told herself, for years,  _ he loves me, even when he’s cruel _ . Even when he’s a fucking dumbass. But this...she counts her straws and finds the number wanting.

“Fuck you…” she mumbles, her hands gripping the wood of the bench, nails digging in hard enough to give her splinters.

They are both so good at revenge.

She sniffs, willing herself to toughen up, to stop crying like a little girl. To take action, whatever stupid action her racing heart bids her.

The tracking device. She implanted it in his stupid bald head long ago.

 

\--

 

There’s a crack of thunder. It frightens him, like everything does, and he startles. It sounds so much like his father’s booming voice. 

The rain pours as if from a broken dam. It’s only right. He’s never been poetic, but there’s something about this that matches. Something about the downpour that makes him feel he’s in good company. For a while, he stares out across the city, blurred by rain.

There’s a knock at the door. Someone out there, ready to try and give him the sympathy he doesn’t deserve. He opens the door, and it creaks from lack of use.

She’s wilted. She’s dripping cascades and her cheeks are red and wet. He could _ die _ , she is so much what he needed to see. His lips hang open, and she inhales as if to speak. There is nothing for either of them to say. They both know the story. They both know everything is awful and wrong and a lie.

He pulls her in and she collapses into his chest, crying, something he’d never thought he’d see her do. If she can cry, then is anything how he thought it was? If she can sob and his dad is alive, then there is nothing in the world that he knows for sure. But still he guides her to the couch, shivering arms around her, unsure and nervous.

It feels unnatural to be kind.

 

\--

 

She doesn’t give him the chance to ask. She doesn’t give herself the chance to explain. All she can do is hope for understanding.  _ I’m so angry, and you’re here, and I need you, even if it’s only for right now _ . She grabs him by that awful turtleneck and pulls him toward her, alarmed even by her own actions. But it’s impossible to stop. She made that decision in the lobby, and again in the elevator, the hallway. She decided when he opened the door looking like he hoped he’d see his death there.

Pathetic, terrible man, she kisses him like he’s sweet. She wraps her arms around his neck as if she’s been wanting to for years, even if the thought would have once disgusted her. He’s there, and he’s sad, and she can think of now other way to distract herself, to find catharsis, to get back at her husband in a way that can bring her a moment’s joy.

And he seems to ease, leaning into her, his hands surprisingly chaste at first, palms pressed to her back as he pulls her on top of him. Yes, _ yes, _ this is the way it’s meant to be. She’ll snap him in half if he lets her. All that vitriol seems to pool between her thighs in some hateful want, and she finds herself insatiable. Tearing at him like a predator, pulling at her own clothes as if they are caustic, revealing herself to him with a confidence reserved for those who do this professionally.

“God--” he stammers, breathless as if in awe of the sight of her. His touch is reverent even if it’s perverse, and she groans with a satisfaction she can’t quite name. Vengeance. Ecstasy at just how bad she’s chosen to be.

And this time, they aren’t even drunk. It takes no booze to get him slavish, to have his head under her skirt until she screams so loud the building seems to spin and shake anew. She’s sober as a judge when he whimpers, inside her, around her, and they rut with a shared desperation. 

_ I’m so angry, I’m so livid, I’m so lost, _ she thinks,  _ I need you to fuck me until I can’t feel that way anymore _ .

But they don’t talk. Not at all. When it’s finished she gathers her clothes like she’s been caught in the act, and he breathes heavy, perched on his desk, reckoning with reality. She knows very well how earth-shattering her love is. That, at least, allows her some pride.

“...I still don’t like you,” she mumbles, buttoning her coat, facing the door.

“It was that bad?” he asks, quiet, hurt.

“That’s not what I said.”

Because  _ god dammit _ , it was good, even if it was just violence. 

She turns as he drags the back of his hand across his tired lips, and she hates the way she shivers.

All she can do is wander the city until morning, then. There’s nowhere she feels she can exist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well mark me down as sad AND horny


	5. She’ll Come, She’ll Go

He awakes feeling as if he’s been wrung out. All of what was left inside him, squeezed from his weak body by her dainty hands. He awakes with a grin on his face, so magnificent is sex to someone so lonesome, but in his chest he feels the familiar pang of shame. Shame, despite how his skin still tingles with rapture. Guilt, as if he’s done something wrong.

There is no such thing as sin. You just do what you do, and there’s no one to judge you for it but yourself. Everything he does is against that god which doesn’t exist, anyway.

He expects to never hear from her again, expects her to look upon him now as if they’ve never met, but he has not enough pride to wait around for that to happen. He calls, he texts.  _ Looking to get back at your husband again?  _ Like a lech, like he was so good to her she can’t possibly refuse. She doesn’t respond, and he comes up with excuses for her. Busy. Doesn’t want to seem suspicious. 

It’s not until the summit that he sees her again. At least now she’ll be forced to reckon with it, once he gets her alone.

Beneath the tent, amidst the revelry, he grabs two glasses of champagne from a passing tray, seeks her out. She’s quick to turn her eyes to the grassy ground, slow to take the offered drink as if it’s got some sort of poison in it.

“What do you want?” she asks. She’s looking sleek and regal in her suit. He guesses as to why she dressed that way, and his foolish ego leads him to believe it’s because of him. Trying not to give off the wrong vibes, trying to taunt him. Even if he knows it’s just because she needs to command respect.

“Just to talk…”

“Yeah, right. Save your voice for your speech, Venture.” She takes an all-too generous sip from her glass and folds an arm across her chest. “What happened, it was just…” Her eyes dart around, checking for eavesdroppers. “It was just a one-time thing, okay? The Monarch and I have made up, and--”

“I  _ knew _ that was why you came!”

“Yeah, congratulations, Venture, you cracked the case! I was mad, and lonely, and you were the only thing not pissing me off that night, okay?”

He hates how honored he feels to hear that.

“Don’t be too proud of yourself, sister,” he parries, mimicking her stern stance. “I was going through some shit too.”

“You’re  _ always _ going through some shit. You’re a fucking mess.”

“Oh, like _ your  _ life is so together!” 

They lean closer, nose-to-nose as they argue. God, he wants to choke her to death. He wants to turn around to the party and yell, confess what they did, just to ruin her. 

But her anger, it thrills him. He’d love to be crushed beneath one of those high-heeled shoes.

The horns play, and they’re needed elsewhere. He takes some time to stifle his want, his fury, downing an entire glass of champagne before heading to the podium.

 

\--

 

She was already dreading this. Already pained by the thought of sitting in this fold-out chair, surrounded by men whose pride could fill an ocean. And Venture isn’t helping. He’s only helped once, and she’s been living with that shame for over a week. The shame, and the sensation he seems to have imprinted on her skin...She despises how fondly she remembers his touch and tongue.  _ Asshole _ .

It’s hard to look at him. But if she doesn’t, it would be all the more suspect. Look at him up there, in his KFC Colonel suit and his poor posture. She feels around her a cloud, a mist, permeating her ears and heart, spreading around to everyone the awful thing she’s done. Playing back the noises she made and the things he mumbled into her ear that he couldn’t have possibly meant.

She watches him loosen his tie in frustration, watches him scratch the back of his neck like the tired man he ought to be, and finds herself wishing she could have another glass of champagne. To take the edge off of how he somehow makes her breathless. Despite how insufferable, how lecherous, how utterly annoying he is, she can no longer deny the hint of charm. The bags beneath his eyes which she’s sure have been there since youth, the hook of his nose and his slim shoulders. She could snap him in half if she wanted to. She could ruin him and make it so that he’d never be the same, not after her. She could devour that man, and spit him out even more a husk than he already is.

She signs the accord, a ringing in her ears as if she’s going deaf. She can hear the voices of men, the unskilled blowing of horns, the clattering of folding tables being put away. She stands there, vacuous, a weakness in her knees that she wishes would go away. What is she waiting for? She has a job to do, a home to go back to. But her shoes seem to stick to the cement of the burned-down compound’s foundations, until she feels a hand upon her shoulder.

“Sheila…”

She swats Venture’s hand away.

“You’ve lost your right to call me that,” she snaps, grimacing, brushing her shoulder as if he’s left a stain with his fingers.

“Oh come  _ on _ ,” he says, exasperated, hooking a hand into her arm and pulling her into a darkened corner. “I saw the way you stared at me the whole time--”

“You were making speeches! What else am I supposed to look at!?”

“I just don’t get why you’re being so weird about this--”

“Why I’m being--? Venture, you’re my husband’s arch-enemy. It was a stupid thing I did--”

“ _ We _ did. Don’t act like you’re in control here, because you’re not.”

“Not in control, shut the fuck up!” She steps closer to him, brow furrowed and heels digging into the ground. “Like you haven’t wanted me for years! I could have come to you any time since we met and you would have  _ thanked _ me for it.”

“So you’ve thought about it before then?”

_ Smack _ . Her leather glove must sting his skin.

 

\--

 

And just like last time, it all happens so fast. As if guided by a strong gust of wind, he pushes her against the old, crumbling wall, pressing their bodies together as if trying to go through her. His cheek aches from her slap, but nothing burns so much as his need. At first, she growls, pushes, keeps her lips shut tight like she’s still so goddamn angry—

But then she softens. She eases her shoulders and parts her knees, allowing him to burrow between her thighs, surround her with his arms and lift her up. It takes all his strength, so scrawny he is. And after some fumbling, some gasping, some furtive words in a hurry, he has his way with her.

A funny way to put it, since she seems to dig into him just as ferociously. It just makes him feel better to pretend he has an ounce of control. She’s taken it all from him with her wiles and her sex and her furious gaze. Even as he struggles inside her with a look of reverence and adoration, there’s still so much fire in her eyes that he cannot undo.

And it hurts, and he could cry, but he doesn’t. He buries himself in each part of her he can reach, resting his bare head against her breast as he spills himself. She’s taken everything from him.

They allow themselves a moment of softness, in their panting. Huddled close against the wall, her head leaning into his chest, her hands gripping loosely onto his clothes. His thin arms laying soft against her back as they collect themselves.

“...we’ve gotta stop doing that,” she tells him, muffled by his embrace. 

He doesn’t disagree. Not out loud. There’s nothing he can say that will make it the right thing to do. Certainly not what he cannot help but think.  _ You’ll keep coming back. If you don’t, I will.  _

 

—

 

She returns home feeling dirty. Like there’s something wrong inside her still, and even worse, she liked it. 

“Hi honey…” her husband coos from the couch. “How did it go?”

“Fine.” She drops her bag in the foyer and ambles over to him. He is still her comfort. He is still the king in her castle. She adores that man, and it makes her feel sick. She bursts with the truth, but she’s too goddamn tired to bother.

Crawling into his lap, she dozes, hoping his hate is not so strong he’d know his nemesis by smell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hghhhhjsjdjd my lizard brain awaits your approval

**Author's Note:**

> Well??? I dunno. This might end up being a ship and I hate myself for it. Should I continue?


End file.
